


I'll paint you how I want you

by Anam_Writes



Series: Anam's Commission Library [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Byleth's name is Kanan, F/M, Kanan learns to take a hint, Male My Unit | Byleth, Married Couple, Riding, Rope Bondage, Very Mild Ropeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anam_Writes/pseuds/Anam_Writes
Summary: Bernadetta has a suggestion to make in her own special way....“You painted us,” he said, coat sliding off his shoulders, dropping straight to the floor. “Together.”Bernadetta only nodded, toying with the rope behind her back.“There was rope,” he added. “You want...there was a lot of rope.”Bernadetta cleared her throat, held the small length out, pulled taut. “I thought we’d start easy. Just a little around the wrist.”
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Bernadetta von Varley
Series: Anam's Commission Library [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875259
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	I'll paint you how I want you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TuriansCanDance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuriansCanDance/gifts).



> The last from this round of commissions! Thank you so much to TuriansCanDance for the opportunity to write for your Kanan and Bernadetta. I hope you all feel the love here, guys!

The first paper Bernadetta laid on the dresser. There it sat all morning long until Kanan cleaned the mess of scrapped sketches and outlines from the surface. She had no way of knowing whether her new husband had read her composition or not. It may have touched the bottom of a waste bin before it had the chance to touch his eyes. So the next she laid down on the low table in the sitting room of Varley’s estate - where he liked to take his tea.

“Bernadetta?” He held the paper up as she entered to take her break with him - as they always did while the sun was high and their home at its hottest. “You left one of your drafts out here.”

“Oh, did I?” She sat down. Red painted her face like it always did. The tiny trumpet that sounded retreat in her mind blared. She silenced it; blessedly, it was much easier to silence as of late. The red in her face she’d had yet to learn the work around for. “Did you read it?”

“No,” Kanan reassured her, folding the draft and slipping it into his wife’s hand. He glowed with a kindness and understanding she’d become accustomed to, but was all too frustrating now. “You asked me not to read your work before it’s done, after all.”

She was about to press him, to tell him it would be alright, just this once, when he took his own stack of papers from his pocket. 

“My sister sent word from Derdriu,” Kanan’s eyes lit up, as they always did when he spoke of family. “Claude’s arranging a feast announcing something special at the Locket. They want us to join them.”

Bernadetta sighed. At the tilt of her husband’s head she only smiled, assured him she was not scared to attend the King’s feast - though it was a fair concern on his part. Rather, though she did not say, Bernadetta was unsure how to redirect the topic once her sister-in-law, Byleth, was named. She loved her friend dearly but her presence in their minds was not exactly conducive to a mood. 

The next time, Bernadetta decided to forgo subtlety: she painted. 

She examined herself over in the mirror - each curve of her structure, each fading scar, each place where muscle has softened from disuse in peace times. She thought how at home she felt in her body this way: not as a tool for the longevity of house Varley or a weapon to be wielded in battle, but as hers. She can sit and laze, eat and drink as she pleases. She can dance with Kanan in their socks on marble tile and catch her own fall when she inevitably slips in a spin. She can loosen her fingers for her bugle rather than her bow. She can take pleasure in herself and share that pleasure with another. She commited all this to memory. 

That night, as they slept, she committed to memory, too, how Kanan felt molded 'round her: his arms wrapped about her waist, her back pressed into his chest as it rose and fell serenely. 

She painted her body as she felt it rather than as she saw. As for Kanan, she knew well enough what he looked like laid in their sheets. The only liberty she took was the arch of his strong, lean arms over his head and the puckering of the thin skin around his wrists beneath rope. 

She put the painting where she knew it would be seen: tacked onto the inner side of the study’s door. 

It did not take long after for Kanan to follow her trail. He swept into their room, quick as a whip but soundless, not a crack to him. 

“You painted us,” he said, coat sliding off his shoulders, dropping straight to the floor. “Together.”

Bernadetta only nodded, toying with the rope behind her back.

“There was rope,” he added. “You want...there was a lot of rope.”

Bernadetta cleared her throat, held the small length out, pulled taut. “I thought we’d start easy. Just a little around the wrist.”

Kanan stared down at her hands. “I trust you. We’ll start easy.”

Trust he did as Bernadetta inched the hem of his shirt up. Then she rolled down the waist hand of his trousers ‘til he could step from them. Then she took him by the hand, laid him down on the bed and placed his hands neatly folded above his head. 

“Is that comfortable, or…?” She trailed to see a pulling back in his eyes, the kind that only crossed him with anticipation - whether in battle, at parties or in bed. 

Kanan gulped it down. “It’s good.”

Good, she thought, smiling. Not alright, not fine, but good. 

She was careful when tying the knots around his wrists, careful of how deceptively tender his nerves were. When she successfully finished the work without spooking him, she sat back to admire the view. 

Bernadetta watched the rise and fall of Kanan’s chest. Her hands spread over the diving flush, colouring the tips of his ears, tops of his cheek, painted unevenly down his neck and further. She could feel the warmth. Of him beneath her, between her thighs. 

Under her fingertips came the weak, heartless stutter of his pulse.

She looked up in green eyes and saw more than restraint, more than rope holding him back; she saw patience. 

That is what drew her body down, towards his. She gasped the slightest bit when she pressed herself onto him, watched his hand twitch above his head. 

“You’re alright?” She asked. 

Bernadetta’s hands slid back over his chest, his throat, through his mint hair, until they rested on the rope above his head. She was so small compared to him, she was not used to casting a shadow. Yet she did. Her eyes were level to his own, cast in the shade of her body, and he breathed a sigh, seeming steadier. 

“Yes,” he said. 

Bernadetta leaned down, pressed a kiss to his lips. Then to his nose. When she pulled back up he was smiling. Something began to glow warmly in her chest. 

She moved, hips rolling in an easy pattern. The ride was relaxing. Bernadetta found herself humming as she sat back up, drew her eyes to the ceiling. When she felt the jut of him beneath her, a motion lacking in her husband’s usual grace, she turned back to him. 

He was pink, nearly pastel - drawing a beautiful contrast to the green of his hair - and panting. He was still so patient. He had always been so patient with her. 

Bernadetta rose again, then fell, setting a proper pace for him to cling to. His moans rode the waves of each meeting of the bodies. On and on she went, building to something. She reached for it, trusted him to wait as her heartbeat picked up and her hands balled into fists on his chest. 

Then she grasped it: sweet, agonizing and prolonged in her pace above him. 

“Kanan,” she gasped.

He answered with her name, straining beneath her as she rode him out, the last length of this little journey. 

Bernadetta fell onto his chest, gave a contented sigh. In the dark and the candles she felt at home in this feeling. They’d brought each other to rest, to peace. Before she could drift further, however, Kanan made a parched sound. 

“Bernadetta,” his voice cracked. “My hands.”

“Oh,” she nearly jumped, shaking her head as she undid the knot. “Of course you forgot, Bernie.”

Kanan only laughed, rubbing his wrists. Bernadetta waited for his smile to reappear, as she inspected the pink outline there. When he was done she fell back with him to the bed, in the circle of his arms. 

Bernadetta chalked this up as a success. 

One eye opened to peer up at her husband’s soft smile. More than, maybe.


End file.
